Scenes from a Memory
by Gabrieth
Summary: 100 words drabbles based on randomly generated words. This series will be marked as complete since I don't know how much of these I'll be doing but every chapter will be posted with ten drabbles each. Enjoy and leave your comments.
1. Chapter 1

_Edge_

"Do you wanna be friends or not?"

He felt like he was skating on the surface of a perfectly polished lake on some mountain top, without looking down; a vast immensity of abyss under his feet.

The treacherous wind would leave him breathless, trying to push him off limits but it was exhilarating, cleansing. Worth it.

It was a long way down from here. Greater than he could've ever known.

He took his new found friend's hand.

He skated right over the edge, confidently.

Happily.

It was a long way down but it didn't matter. He wouldn't let him fall.

* * *

 _Abstinent_

He almost reaches out to the now dark screen of his laptop.

The calls are starting to get longer every time, crowded by longing silences.

The "I miss you"s neither have said. But they both know.

In every stolen kiss on the corridors, on every quick reverb of the motorcycle engine. On every getaway to watch the stars, hold each other close. Just for now, while they still can.

It's like the warmth of each other's bodies had become an addiction.

He remembers his words: just one more week.

He's been abstinent for too long.

He can barely wait.

* * *

 _Greatest_

He had some big shoes to fill, but he would do it. He promised.

With him by his side he could do anything.

He has achieved far more alongside him that he ever had before.

Even coming back to a strange city drifting on the cold winter.

To a warm home and a hug from the back.

"I missed you."

"I still have a lot of training to do to reach you, Viktor."

"No.." He said against the nape of his neck, "you're the greatest already."

"The greatest husband anyone could ever asked for."

He pulled back for a kiss.

* * *

 _Apartment_

The winters were harsher this far north. Ruthless.

He was used to clear out the entrance of his family home from the snow, but this was a entirely different feeling.

An entirely different place, with entirely different people: Most of them strangers, really.

He had seen the place before, in pieces: a picture on the couch, a kitchen counter on the back.

But it felt new.

The cold hard wind pushed to keep the door open but he won at last.

"Do you like it?"

A new place to call home. Entirely different.

"I love it."

But perfect on itself.

* * *

 _Bittersweet_

Five years he waited to see those eyes again.

This time completely focused on him.

This time accompanied by the brightest smile he's ever seen. One he provoked.

The eyes of a soldier: still fierce, still burning, like emerald green waves of fire.

Strong. Determined. Clear.

His face pressed against his chest hard as only he could.

"You will text me, ok? Promise"

He has waited five years for this. For him.

And he was about to leave his side again. But not like before.

He could endure the beautiful pain just to see those eyes on him again.

"Promise."

* * *

 _Collarbone_

He pressed his lips delicately on the top of his head; having him like this, curled up on his lap, made it easy.

He purred and cuddled closer. He always does.

The kiss followed through the golden locks down to his neck. Igniting a familiar sting on his collarbone.

"I will miss you, you know?"

"I know." He tilted his head to give his partner more room, and he took it, nuzzling against the nape of his neck.

He places one more kiss on the slightly pink mark there. He winced. He didn't pull away.

"I will miss you too."

* * *

 _Bless_

The seagulls are dancing over the still waters of Barcelona.

He doesn't remember the last day he felt so warm under a winter sky.

He fiddles around with the little golden band on his finger. Let it shine on the morning light.

He told him the seagulls reminded him of home. Saint Petersburg.

But they don't. Not anymore.

Russia was never this warm, never this cozy.

Never this crowded around him.

But the kid said otherwise.

"Reminds you of Hasetsu, doesn't it?"

A new, safe place to call home. Filled with life. With love.

"It does."

He couldn't feel luckier.

* * *

 _King_

He felt the cold against his hands, like shattered glass piercing through sking that should be thicker than this.

He never felt so vulnerable, so weak.

His body didn't respond the way it should; he knew the moves but they weren't happening.

He felt himself fall. Deeper and harder than ever before.

He felt himself crumble.

He felt them sing.

You're stronger than this, you can overcome.

You're meant to be on the top.

He can hear the clapping, feel the tears.

You're the king. Get up and look at them.

This is all for you.

You can do this.

* * *

 _Down_

He knew the moves by heart; they were imprinted on his body.

One jump, one spin. He fell.

Step. Jump. Fall.

He felt the stares like daggers onto his skin.

You're embarrassing yourself. Stop. Get up, get out.

You're not good enough.

The song is done. He stepped out.

They said it's OK. Sometimes you fall. You just need to get back up.

He wondered if he can.

If his spirit isn't broken yet.

He wondered if he can sink even lower.

He wondered if he'll ever know.

He decided:

The ice will be calling him again.

He'll always listen.

* * *

 _Compulsion_

He needed it like he needed to breath.

He said it was a public image thing: he had to have an account. He didn't really want to.

Yet he checked it everyday after training.

Every night before bed.

It gave him strength. Hope.

I'll catch up to you one day, you'll see. Both with medals around our necks.

And I'll tell you all you've done for me.

Just by looking at me that once.

He took his phone again: sick habit.

Yuri plisetsky posted again.

The unforgettable eyes of a soldier.

If they could only look at him once more.


	2. Chapter 2

_Help_

He was strong, thick skin, iron bones.

He could crush anything in his way.

He didn't need anyone. Not anymore.

Not since she left him, alone on the ice.

Relying on his blades to stand up tall.

He's been staring at his own two feet for long; not looking back.

Not looking around.

"Yurio, are you OK?"

He's been staring at his feet for too long

Not noticing the flowers bloomed around him.

Not noticing the hands stretching out to reach him,

Help him.

Pick him up when he falls.

Maybe a little help wasn't so bad after all.

"Mh."

* * *

 _Hug_

He had fallen. Hard.

He could feel the solitude, the despair.

Those who were there for him couldn't quiet the storms in his mind.

He had fallen. Hard. And had found no hands to hold on to.

Comfort wasn't there, waiting at the edge of the rink.

It was sitting on an airport at odd hours of the night.

A familiar warmth enveloping him,

Stitching pieces back together.

He didn't wanted to let go.

"Be mine until I retire."

He means forever. He didn't dare say it.

His touch feels like a lifeline, Like a lifetime.

Of comfort. Of Love.

* * *

 _Coat_

He hasn't listened to his coach again: he never really does.

He's strong on his own, enough:

He would tear down the living legend following him. Just you wait.

They have never tried to reach him anyway.

The door opens; the blizzard strikes, sharp.

He hasn't brought his winter coat.

He hasn't listened.

The hands beside him left something fall onto his shoulders.

"You'll get cold. A champion can't get sick, right?"

He's smiling, despite the snow clinging to him.

He never tried to reach down. He never had to.

He was always right when he needed to be.

"Mh."

* * *

 _Ashes_

He was never perfect, impeccable.

But he was there, he had reached far.

He could do it.

He could win it

He remembered everyone waiting for him back at home,

Cheering for him.

Every step well made, every jump perfectly landed was for them.

Because of them.

Every ounce of will he had, desperately calling to them.

Yearning to go back home.

To hug his little boy once again.

He wasn't expecting the call.

"Yuuri, Vicchan… He didn't make it."

His feet tripped. He fell.

He felt the blow striking him to the core.

Harder than he ever fell before.

* * *

 _Finite_

"Be mine until I retire."

It doesn't say much, does it?

It might be weeks for now, it might be years,

But underneath the warmth of his body, of his breath on my shoulder,

It sounds like forever.

It's the zenith of uncertainty: it says nothing, really.

But it feels like so much.

Like wherever I go, whatever the circumstance,

A hand would be holding mine.

Like none has ever done before.

Like a mist lifting off of my sight,

A weight over my shoulders fading.

Like it meant "forever."

I wish it could be forever.

An eternity of this.

* * *

 _Chapter_

Something snapped inside of him.

Flooded him with voices. Faces. Names.

Calling him. Holding him.

All around him, a crowd behind the lights, rooting for him.

But that wasn't it; something snapped and the world around him seemed to vanish.

Only them standing.

Family. Friends. Mentors.

Love. Life.

Calling him. Reaching out.

This is your time to shine. This is your fresh start.

A new chapter and all of the pages are blank.

Write them with steady hands, confident:

We're here for you.

We will be here for you.

He couldn't stop the tears from falling.

Always.

You're not alone.

* * *

 _Drink_

He was devastated. Broken beyond his wits.

He didn't even bother speaking to no one; he was never really good at it.

He could see the lingering eyes of a certain russian bully, shooting daggers at him.

"You should retire."

Maybe he should. He took a glass.

Maybe the boy's right. He took another.

The man he has idolized since childhood looked at him at times, uncertain,

As if he was wobbling towards him.

Maybe he should just drop it all.

But if he were to retire, if this was his last gala

He would make it impossible to forget.

* * *

 _Grinning_

It feels like they've been talking for hours on the stone park bench,

The winter cold still stinging,

Yet somehow they can't feel it anymore.

Something about the boy's voice makes his lips twitch upwards without even noticing.

Something about his ways.

They walk up to the bike waiting for them;

He looks at himself in the rear view mirror:

A smile wide plastered from ear to ear.

He can't remember the last time he smiled like that.

Then again, he can't remember the last time he was this carelessly happy.

The boy holds onto him, the grin does too.

* * *

 _Banquet_

It wasn't his first gala: that's for sure.

It was his fifth gold after all.

However, it was the first one like this:

The first with a young boy (skater?) clinging onto the metal pole,

Half naked, yet completely drunk,

Dancing, twisting, showing off.

Staring. Inviting.

It wasn't the first banquet, but it was the first time around this:

A slobbering mess of a person holding onto him for dear life,

Talking foreign words he didn't recognize.

Ending up with a phrase he could actually understand

"Be my coach, Viktor!"

Well well… Isn't he something?

Something awoke inside of him.

* * *

 _Eat_

The guy was staggering like a zombie through the corridors.

Alone, he guessed. That must be it.

He was alone the first time he met him, too.

Locked in a bathroom stall.

He looked down at the paper bag on his hands.

Somewhere around the end of November, wasn't it?

And he was alone in a country he didn't know.

He was like this once, but not really.

In a country he didn't know, he found himself a family to look after him,

Without him asking.

"Hey, eat!

It'll be your birthday soon anyways"

Just giving back a favor.

Right?


	3. Chapter 3

_Blonde_

He always got lost in the story when the boy spoke,

He got lost in the way his hands move, the way his eyes sparkle;

It was mesmerizing. The whole of him.

The emerald green gaze gleaming he could see himself reflected in,

The much exaggerated gestures of his mouth, the bluffed disgustment,

The blond soft (he was sure they were, he would give so much to find out) locks falling over his eyes.

The boy stopped when a hand reached to pull his hair aside.

He scoffed and said nothing, keeping up his chatter.

(and he was so right)

* * *

 _Caterpillar_

An ever evolving monster, they called him.

He keeps on breaking up, shedding every piece of himself

To come back again, tougher, stronger.

There's beauty on his strength, they say, and he wonders

If they can notice the pain on it too.

The blisters, the bruises, the sleepless nights.

How does it feel to be a champion?, they ask.

Lonely, probably. Hurting.

Tell us you're different than us. Unreachable.

Untouchable.

The cold tone of cold people with cold voice recorders pointing at him.

"Deserving. Worth every scar."

A beautiful ever evolving monster.

He wonders when will his last metamorphosis be.

* * *

 _Distancing_

He has been alone most of his life.

Mostly alone.

They were always coaches, trainers, doctors. But they don't count.

They yearn for his medals, not his company.

He's been idolized, perched on an altar, far from the real world.

Until a few months back.

Suddenly everything changed: like a whirlwind scrambling all he knew about life.

And yet, he had to leave him. Just for now.

But one day away felt like an eternity.

Waiting in an airport for him felt like an eternity.

Clashing into him…

He has been alone until him.

He knew he never would again.

* * *

 _Treasure_

He has left it all before in favor of his career.

Travel the world on his own, never settling up.

Changing coaches, styles. Always yearning for one thing.

The name of his country on the map:

The Hero of Kazakhstan would finally come back home one day,

With gold around his neck.

And he tried, he broke his own mark;

He skated his heart out, and did it for them,

For his family and peers watching him,

For the gaze of the soldier he knew was encouraging him,

Yet he didn't get the gold.

But he did get the treasure.

* * *

 _Aroma_

He was thrilled, ecstatic:

He hasn't seen him in forever

He was the first face he could think feel he would fight for

He would protect through every storm

Inside a beaten up twenty years too old car on the corner.

It was hot, and noisy, and was probably dying at some point along the way.

But it was something he didn't know he missed so much.

That, and his grandfather. The first name he could think of

To skate for, to make proud.

And the smell that seemed to fill up the confined space

"I made you some pirozhkis"

* * *

 _ **Injury**_

He got so worked up he couldn't think clearly:

The bastard knew how to push his buttons,

Answer to her so innocently, like she wasn't throwing herself at him.

He jumped, he landed, he fell face first on the ice.

The stinging on his ankle. Damn it.

He heard him skating towards him; he could recognize his embrace anytime.

He took him home, tucked him in, stayed.

All night he stayed.

He might have a sprained ankle,

But he had the best company he could ever hoped for.

He curled on his chest.

Maybe the time off wasn't so bad.

* * *

 _Victory_

They are screaming his name:

He broke the living legend's mark.

His first senior championship, his first gold.

He should be happy, he should be proud.

Even when the guy he followed is retiring

Because he feels he's too weak for it,

Or maybe because breaking one world record is enough,

Maybe because he's peaked.

And anger bubbles through him.

You're not allowed to retire,

Not until you can be a proper rival,

Not until I can beat you, fair and square,

After you've done your best.

That will be the gold I'll cherish.

I know you'd be proud,too.

* * *

 _Excess_

He was defeated. Humiliated.

They took everything away from him in a second.

He could see it in Viktor's eyes.

He's lost even before the battle started.

But he wouldn't let it pass. He'll teach that pig his place.

It'll take sweat, and blood, and tears, but he will.

He will defeat him.

"Plisetsky, stop! You need a break!"

He could feel his whole body aching under the pressure,

His legs struggling to keep him standing.

But he couldn't just stop now, Not yet.

He won't let him win again.

The world suddenly went black.

He crashed against the ice.

* * *

 _Braid_

He's sick and tired of it all.

The "russian punk", they used to call him.

And as soon as he enters the seniors the other nicknames start falling.

The russian fairy. The prima ballerina.

And that fucking braid.

It's like they're trying to make him kick their faces in.

He stares at his own reflection on the dark screen on his phone,

Sprawled on the hotel room bed, tugging threatenly on the still secured locks of hair,

A text comes in:

"By the way, I liked your hair."

His hand stops. He smiles

Dammit, Beka.

"You can't even flirt right."

* * *

 _Burn_

Overwhelming. That's what it was.

All of them younger. All of them better.

What the hell was he even doing there?

The coach kept on scolding him. He thought on just leave. Give it all up.

And he saw him, perfectly positioned on the barre.

Bright green eyes, cold, determined.

He felt something inside of him catch fire. A warm violent tidal wave washing him over.

He wouldn't quit, he'll get better. Much better.

He will reach out to this kid; he'll prove his willpower can overcome anyone else's sheer talent.

He will find him. Thank him.

And hold him.


	4. Chapter 4

_Green_

Like bright emerald, a sun trapped underneath

Glistening with the fire of a daring heart.

Pounding through every obstacle, every wall.

Like the ever flowing waters of a river,

Feeding life all around it,

But capable of sinking them in if they stare too long

(Have I?)

Never forgetting where it comes from,

But still never looking back.

Like the forbidden potion,

Dangerous,

Yet intoxicating.

The green in his eyes,

The fire underneath;

He couldn't take his eyes away

Despite the scolding from the coach.

(Have I drowned already?

I would never want to breathe out of his gaze again)

* * *

 _Nickname_

"Come on, I'm gonna die in here. Or they will."

He watched him pout like a little kid, but there was nothing to say:

He couldn't just take off with the rink's champion.

No matter how eager he is.

Seeing him scolding at the older couple was fun anyways

But he'd prefer having him all to himself.

"Please, Beka, just this once?"

He stared at the boy, eyes wide

While he looked inside, seeking for disgust.

He didn't find any. He tried again.

"I promise it'll be alright, please… Beka?"

The name softly purred out.

They headed for the door.

* * *

 _Date_

There was the beautiful sunset on park Guell

There was the slight trace of the orange colored sky reflected over deep brown eyes.

There was a memory, a five year long wait.

The smell of cold wind and leather against him

As they rode through the streets of barcelona,

Awkwardly close. Pleasantly close.

There was the cute little cafe on a corner,

And the gaze that seemed to strip him off his masks:

He didn't need them anymore,

He was safe. He was comfortable.

There was the loud intromision.

"Sorry we interrupted your date-"

"It's not a date!"

Was it?

* * *

 _Crying_

When Yuuri did it, he felt the panic:

He was startled, didn't know what to do.

He's done it almost as a game, hurt him like that,

Just to see what happens when you carve deep enough.

But now, looking at him like this, he couldn't wrap his head around the possibility:

This was not for his career,

Not for some living legend pride,

His little project.

Viktor was sincerely attached to him,

He honestly wanted it to be a engagement,

Not a stunt.

He might even… love him?

Him? His nervous mess of a trainee?

Could he love him?

* * *

 _Sea_

He's looking at the waves quietly passing by.

It's nothing like home in Hasetsu,

Yet the seagulls sound the same.

It's not like the christmas eve at Barcelona, filled with noise and crowds and color,

There are barely a few people venturing closer to the water under the chilled breeze.

When a voice wakes him up from his daydreaming,

Calling out his name.

He sees Viktor running down to him,

Meeting him in a tight embrace,

holding him as if he were to disappear the moment he lets go.

It's not the same at all,

But this could be home.

* * *

 _It_

The old ones didn't know about it:

To busy groping each other to pay attention.

The reporters didn't have a clue, Luckily

Baba didn't think I would dare, even being of age.

His family had no idea. He wanted to keep it that way for a bit longer.

"The day I get gold, then we'll see", he said.

And now he stand besides me, a position above,

Golden medal glistening around his neck,

His hand brushing mine softly.

Grabbing me. Pulling.

His other hands grabbing my hair. Tugging.

His lips on mine.

"Thanks for the gold, kitten."

Cheers.

It's out.

* * *

 _Ticket_

"What do you mean you sent me something? It's _your_ birthday, Yura."

He huffs and looks away; he knows I could read the answer on his eyes.

I'm not going to.

"It's gonna be on your inbox in a bit. Just wait for it"

He leans back onto the bed frame and his cat jumps onto his lap

When a new notification appears on the screen.

Message from Aeroflot.

I don't need to open it to know what it is.

"What's this, Yura?"

"My birthday present." He sounds nervous, but certain.

"And what would that be."

He leans closer.

"You."

* * *

 _Mystery_

He still couldn't understand it.

It all seemed like a dream:

His childhood idol in his house, his room.

Coaching him. Spending every minute around him.

 _Liking it._

It was all too surreal.

The getaway that felt incredibly like a date.

The restaurant, the shopping;

The way he accepted the ring.

As if he knew there was much more on it than he said.

It all seems like a dream, these past eight months.

As if it was a work of magic.

"you don't remember? You danced with me, Yuuri."

"You got drunk and -"

OH.

That what it was, then.

* * *

 _Sleeping_

He was a wreck of a person.

Bag under his eyes, seeming like he was gonna fade suddenly,

His head a bundle of nerves.

Viktor couldn't leave him like that.

He would fix it, and quick.

He took him back to the hotel, put him to sleep

No matter the fight back.

He laid on top of him to force him to stay. He dozed off.

Yuuri felt the warmth of his body on his chest,

His heartbeat syncing with his own.

A smile crept on his face.

This is one treatment he hadn't thought of before.

It could work.

* * *

 _Reporter_

I could see him behind the crowd of reporters waving recorders near my face

Asking the questions we agreed we weren't answering.

Mentioning _names._

Where did they get names from?

I couldn't recognize almost any of those; they were a few.

Only Mila.

Daredevil.

I could see the murderous gleam in his eyes.

 _You don't mention Mila._

He came by like a lightning,

Pushing through the barrier of nosy strangers.

Pressing himself against me, pressing me against the wall,

Kissing me hungrily, avid.

Marking his territory with tongue and teeth.

He took my hand, leading me away.

"You're done here."

 _So, I might have written different versions of the same thing, but you must have noticed that at this point. Choose whichever you like best._


End file.
